


When We Were Kings

by Ugly_Love



Series: Postcards [1]
Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: I never thought I'd ever write a marriage fic and yet here we are, M/M, Mild Sexual Content, but dont get too comfortable, gory injury detail, its... almost fluff, original strike team, pre-fall: first omnic crisis
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-17
Updated: 2018-03-17
Packaged: 2019-04-03 16:40:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,062
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14000259
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ugly_Love/pseuds/Ugly_Love
Summary: They were married during a ceasefire, in a half-bombed mosque in Egypt during the first Omnic Crisis.





	When We Were Kings

They were married during a ceasefire, in a half-bombed mosque in Egypt during the first Omnic Crisis.

A dog day in mid-July, so hot it felt stormy, the air thick with disturbed dust; holding the light and sinking everything into a surreal yellow smog. White plaster buildings and comms spires gleaming in the dirty air like a mirage, scent of recent gunfire still strong enough to sting.

The mosque was small, traditional; a cave of azure tiles in raised calligraphic patterns and tessellating ten-point stars, glazed and glistening like spilt pulse-munition plasma. The far end of the hall was newly opened to the elements, with only piles of blue rubble and stacked supplies (bottled water, cans and ration packets, clothing crates, three well-worn stretchers) to mark the transition from building to street.

The Imam had agreed with no questions asked, by now so used to performing sudden, unceremonious unions for people who thought they might not survive the night that marrying two unreligious, 6’1” super soldiers at less than a days’ notice wasn’t much to write home about.

They stood face to face in front of the mihrab, Ana leaning against a pillar nearby; the official witness. All three still in heavy tac-gear, dust smeared, haggard, smiling. The blue of the tiles matched the hastily stencilled Overwatch insignias on their chestplates.

The Imam began reading in his soft, careful voice.

Jack got the giggles when they solemnly took each other’s hands, trying to maintain eye contact without snorting while Gabe squeezed his fingers and glared, trying to squash his own grin, hissing “Are you laughing at me? Actually laughing at me while I’m trying to marry your sorry ass?”

“Shhh shut up, shut _up_ -”

The Imam coughed pointedly as Ana snorted behind them, and Jack sobered apologetically.

The rings were plain gold, warm from Gabe’s pocket.

The vows were short (I’d follow you anywhere. To hell and back) but more than enough (You make the fighting worth it, when I feel like nothing could).

Gabe’s face was wet when Jack pressed his smile against his lips.

It ends, it begins.

 

***

 

Within two hours they were back in the network of tents that made up their makeshift base, getting absolutely shit-faced with the entirety of the Overwatch Strike Team; riding the high of the ceasefire, of love made visible, revelling in shining warmth of something that wasn’t violence and didn’t ache.

Jack and Ana were already on a table, Gabriel had gotten shirtless spectacularly quickly, and whatever horrific mix of begged, borrowed and scavenged alcohol Reinhardt had thrown in the cooling tub already had Torbjorn out cold, starfished on the floor.

Ana had tuned the beat-up radio to some local pirate station that seemed to play nothing but Arabic speed-metal , but even that almost unlistenable white noise wasn’t enough to drown out the hoarse holler of “I’M FUCKING MARRIED” , as Gabe turned just in time to witness his gorgeous newly-wed husband smash two cans of cheap beer on his forehead and victoriously choke on the frothing mess as Liao whooped and shook the table he was standing on.

[22:34] As was traditional after almost 5 cups of Reinhardt’s patented Tub Juice©, Lacroix’s throwing knives had come out and he was attempting to make an Overwatch insignia on the wall with them. One drunkenly misjudged throw had a knife hurtling towards the back of Gabe’s neck, but at a speed that had to be almost unconscious, he spun drunkenly, and caught it in mid-air with two fingers.

A second of open mouthed silence, then Gabe held up the knife with a victorious whoop, and the room broke into hollers of “HEAR HEAR!!” as Gabe was promptly hug-ambushed by Lacroix.

[23:57] Jack clasped Reinhardt’s shoulder as he swayed on the spot, narrowly missing being brained by Rein’s beer bottle as he gestured broadly. “Ever since we all heard you and Gabriel doing it in that toilet in Johannesburg, I knew…” He paused, then burped spectacularly, “Knew you would someday be married.” Jack nodded, gesturing vaguely but insistently with his cup, “For me… ‘s back in SEP… he put me in a triangle choke-hold on the mat, and I _knew_ … I knew he was gonna be my husband.” Reinhardt smacked him on the back, causing Jack to snort-spill his mouthful of drink, “HEAR HEAR, MY FRIEND!”

[00:12] “-SEVEN! SIX! FIVE! FOUR!” Ana’s arm barely shook as she held a perfect one-handed headstand on top the keg, chugging from the tube held by Liao as the rest of the team cheered and yelled. At the victorious roar of “OOOONNEEE!!!”, she dropped her legs, axe-kicking Lacroix squarely on the forehead, knocking him out cold before his body even hit the ground, promptly followed by Gabriel; rolling around laughing so hard it was near silent, Torbjorn raising his cup to the collective roar of “HEAR HEAR!!”

[00:48] “No! Nope, stop! Vetoed!” Ana declared, wedging her foot under the creaking folding chair that Jack and Gabe had piled on top of, interrupting a particularly sloppy, grope-y kiss by upending the chair, knocking the messy pile of super soldier onto the floor.

“We didn’t get you a motel room so you could try to consummate your marriage in a _tent_!” She announced, accent thick with alcohol. “GO! Be young! Use protection!”

“One more thing, my friends!” Reinhardt produced a bottle of champagne from seemingly nowhere, presenting it dramatically to Gabriel as Torbjorn attempted to pull Jack to his feet.

Gabe whistled, taking the sweating bottle. “Where the hell did you get this?” “Swapped it for a biotic emitter. Champagne isn’t really the priority around here.” 

Jack wrapped his arms around Gabriel’s shoulders, “Awww, thanks guys. That’s almost romantic.”

“You haven’t seen the best present yet” said Lacroix, grinning ridiculously as he pressed a handful of tacky cherry-flavoured condoms into Jack’s hand.

“Thank you for proving me wrong so quickly.” Jack deadpanned, shoving the condoms in his pocket.

“Alright!” Ana clapped her hands, “That’s it! Go, we’ve had enough of you!”

 

***

 

The Motel was a seedy little place that hadn’t changed its décor for decades, with pink velour headboards and peeling wood-effect vinyl furniture. The calligraphic Qur’an quote above the bed had faded to little more than blues and yellows, and the chintzy pink sheets smelt of cheap, sugary rose oil.

It was the most glamourous place either of them had seen in months.

The sex was messy and loud, both of them revelling in fucking in a real bed for the first time since they met, alternating between drunken laughter and breathless lewd goading.

By 5:13 EET they were laying sprawled on the bed, duvet kicked to the floor and the rickety floor-fan on at full blast to try to relieve some of the sticky heat, their body-amour in a dusty pile by the door.

Gabriel’s head was tucked against Jack’s chin, Jack’s thumb scraping slowly over the buzzed hair at his temple.

“We’re heading back out soon.” Jack murmured, like he didn’t want to raise his voice above the whir of the fan, disturb the air of the room.

“Yeah…” Gabe mumbled. “But I dunno…” He raised his hand, tapping the warm gold of his ring against Jack’s chest. “Think I might be bulletproof now.”

Jack huffed a laugh, rubbing his grin against Gabe’s hair. “Maybe. Don’t go testing it though, gotta keep up the pretence for the sake of everyone else’s egos.”

Jack huffed again, and sobered, looking up at the swirling plaster ceiling.

“We’re gonna be fine.” He said, still looking up, more to himself than Gabe “We’ll make it out. Maybe get our own bed that don’t smell like someone keeps dumping perfume on it rather than washing it.”

Gabe laughed, then wriggled round in Jack’s arm, and Jack turned his head to face him. In the half-light of the room his eyes where so dark, like deep, warm water.

“We’re gonna be fine, Jackie. We’ve come too far now not to be.”

He kissed him, soft and warm, with the hum of the fan and a distant, tinny call to prayer as the only sound in their dark cocoon, and the feeling of sweat drying prickly between their skins.

After a moment Jack peeled himself off of Gabe, rubbing a hand over his sticky hair “Alright, enough smooching, if I don’t use that damn shower before we go I’ll regret it for the rest of the month.” 

Gabe smiled, reaching up to run a hand up Jack’s stomach as he stretched and groaned, watching the gold of his ring smooth over the gold hair above his navel.

“Sounds good to me.”

 

***

 

It was hot. Hotter than he’d felt in years. Jack reached back to peel the collar of his jacket away from his neck, trying to get some air under his clothes. The rain beating against the car did nothing to cool the air: with no wind to move it the storm hung thick and heavy above the fields, stagnating like an overripe fruit rotting on the tree. God, he hated Louisiana. The rain sheeting down the window almost obscured his view of the bar; the back entrance under the green glow of the exit sign, on the opposite side of the lot from Jack’s beat-up station wagon.

He considered taking his sticky windbreaker off, but thought better of it. It was the only thing with enough pockets to hide what he’d need if his target finally showed up. He tapped the ash of his cigarette into the stained footwell. The rain would be enough to hide the glow of the cherry in the otherwise dark car.

Rain like this always made him ache. The humidity did nothing for his prosthetics; the joints of his knees aching, nerves around the ports in his thighs tingling with the promise of lightning, the metal in his shoulder and hands feeling stiff. At least what they put in his face was mostly plastic, he thought wryly.

After the explosion, after they’d folded his face back together and sewed up the pieces, it had taken him weeks to look at himself.

When he finally had, he’d been surprisingly unmoved by it. The scarring was bad, but not as bad as it _should_ have been, since he was lucky enough to have been blown up surrounded by the best medical teams the UN had to offer.

He looked at the mess of raised pink flesh, like melted wax smeared across half his face, and accepted it.

_That’s just what happens to men like me._

Jack propped one booted foot up on the dashboard, between the empty ramen pots and half-full whisky bottle, and pulled a handgun from his inside pocket. He ejected the magazine, checked the rounds, clicked it back into place, put the gun on his lap.

This was an information liaison, shouldn’t come to violence, but you never know. Never know what the guy might say, what Jack might feel like doing after he’s said it.

Jack checked his watch. 2:27.

He fished a cap out of the glovebox, printed with a cracked orange ‘Firecreek Trucks Ltd.’, and pulled it on over his newly shaved hair.

Eyes on the door at the back of the bar, he rubbed his ring finger, a habit he’d never managed to shake. A raised band of thick, smooth scar-tissue wrapped round the first joint of that finger; where the skin had been liquefied by the super-heated metal around it. Metal that had been cut off with pliers at the hospital, lost in the noise and blood and confusion as they staunched the bleeding from his face, splayed open like a half-peeled orange, and tightened the tourniquet around the mess of his legs.

The back door of the bar opened, and a stout, bald silhouette appeared in the orange glow, already pulling a cigarette from its pocket and searching for a light.

Jack checked the silhouette against the profile he’d memorised, matching the height, gait, clothing. David Moses: 43, Caucasian, divorced, 2 kids. Arms supplier to the King Tens, who recently received a generous shipment from a much larger, unnamed organisation.

Unnamed to Mr. Moses, at least. Not to Jack.

Jack checked the time. 2:34. He put his handgun in his jacket pocket, stuck his smoke in his mouth, and opened the door.

It ends, it begins.

**Author's Note:**

> gotta make a U-turn back to angst town at some point or else this would be seriously off-brand :))))))  
> congrats if u got the 'hear hear' reference. and yeah the title is totally lifted but I don't think Mohammad Ali's gonna miss it.
> 
> Comments and kudos appreciated! :))))


End file.
